


Scent Marking

by jacyevans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Scent Marking, Scott is a Good Friend, The Hale Pack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:35:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your pack has spent the better part of the past two weeks driving me up a wall. There has been inappropriate touching, and they’re eating all of my food, and they're wearing my clothes, and <i>sleeping in my bed.</i>" </p><p>Stiles has feelings for Derek. Scott comes up with a solution. Stiles is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent Marking

As with almost everything else in his life, it starts with Scott McCall.

Scott bounds up to his bedroom after pack training, covered in mud and soaked to the bone.

Stiles wrinkles his nose when he walks through the door. “Dude. You couldn’t go home and change first?”

He shrugs, immediately going over to Stiles’ closet, digging around the varied t-shirts and hoodies on the floor for something to pull on. “Your house was closer.”

Stiles throws a pillow at him, which he catches of course, tossing it back and slapping Stiles in the face.

Dirty, cheating werewolf.

Scott yanks a shirt out from the bottom of the pile, frowning. He presses his nose to the fabric.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Do you mind not sniffing the merchandise? It’s creepy.”

“Why does this shirt smell like Derek?”

Stiles opens his mouth to comment. Closes it when he sees the shirt Scott is holding up and sinks low in his seat, spinning back around to face his computer. “BecauseitisDerek’s?” he says, hoping Scott doesn’t catch the words.

Scott crosses the room in two strides, spinning the chair around and yanking him away from the desk for good measure. “Nooooooo,” Stiles says, making grabby hands at his computer. “Come on! I was just getting my research on.”

“You’re always getting your research on.” He waves the shirt in Stiles’ face. “Why do you have Derek’s shirt?”

“Well, I--”

“The truth, Stiles.”

Stiles grimaces, absently cursing his betraying heartbeat - dirty, cheating werewolf. “He loaned it to me. Remember? That thing with the poltergeists and the ectoplasm?”

“That was three weeks ago.” Scott holds up the shirt, raising his arm higher when Stiles reaches to snatch it back.

Stiles tackles Scott to the bed, and the two of them tussle, flipping one another, knees against chests and elbows in rather delicate places. Stiles flips them again, and the two of them teeter precariously on the edge of the mattress before Stiles flails and they crash to the floor.

Stiles lets out a whoosh of air. “Oh God,” he gasps, arms slapping at Scott’s chest. “Get off me, I can’t breathe.”

“Get your elbow out of my eye, then,” Scott says, and Stiles almost elbows him harder out of spite. Instead, he uses Scott’s distraction to yank the t-shirt out of his hands, hiding it behind his back, as if that will make Scott forget about it’s existence.

Scott stands and then heaves Stiles to his feet. “Well?”

“Well what?”

Scott stares at him, supremely unimpressed. Stiles huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “It smells like him, okay?”

“I _just_ said that,” Scott grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Stiles slumps down on the edge of the bed. He glances at Scott at the exact moment he _gets_ it. His eyes widen, mouth dropping open almost comically.

“Shut your mouth, McCall, you’ll never catch a date that way.”

“I already have two.”

“Overachiever,” Stiles mutters, and Scott sits down next to him, while Stiles tugs absently at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Does he know?”

Stiles barks a laugh. “You really think I would be sitting here talking to you about hanging on to one of his t-shirts like some sort of creepy stalker if he did?”

Scott frowns, and Stiles can already see the wheels turning in his brain. 

Stiles shakes his head wildly. “No. No, no, nononono.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“I can see you hashing a plan in that wolfy brain of yours. If you say anything to Derek I swear to God, I will break your nose. With a _sledgehammer._ ”

“Okay!” Scott says, holding up his hands and letting out an awkward little laugh. “I promise I won’t say anything to Derek.”

Something about the wording doesn’t sit right with Stiles, but he ignores it in favor of grabbing a pair of sweats and a different t-shirt out of his dresser, shoving Derek’s shirt to the bottom of his drawer on the way. He tosses the clothes to Scott.

“Get changed already. You smell like wet dog -- _not on top of the computer!_ ” Stiles yelps, shielding his laptop when Scott shakes out his hair, grinning like the werewolf puppy that he is.

He doesn’t think anything of it when Scott spends the night, crawling into bed and taking up more than half of the mattress, limbs sprawled so his hand slaps Stiles in the chest. 

Stiles groans, shoving at Scott until he rolls over, enough that he can get the covers out from where they’re wedged at the end of the bed. Sure, they haven’t shared a bed since they started high school, Scott opting to crash on the spare mattress that Stiles still keeps in his closet, remnants of sleepovers long past, but Scott is his best friend. He’s his bro. This isn’t weird _at all,_ Stiles tells himself, even though yeah, it sort of is.

\--

Two days later, he wakes up to someone pressed against his back, a warmth where when he went to sleep, there was none.

He tells his heart to slow down, because what were the chances of there being an actual cuddle monster in his bed? He still turns over slowly, pausing when he finds Erica fast asleep.

“Uh…” he says, most eloquently.

Erica simply murmurs in her sleep, tugging Stiles closer by the collar of his shirt. He falls on top of her, letting out a mortifying squeak and yanking his hand back when he accidentally grabs her chest in his haste to try to balance.

“Didn’t know you felt that way,” Erica grumbles, completely nonplussed.

“Uh, Erica?” Stiles tries to pull away, but she just squirms closer, throwing her arm over his waist. “Not that I’m opposed to waking up with a beautiful woman in my bed --”

“Damn right you shouldn’t be.”

“But… _why_ am I waking up with you in my bed?”

“Because you’re comfortable,” she says, pragmatic, like this should be obvious. She buries her face in his neck. “Now shut up and go back to sleep.”

Stiles blinks, staring at the top of her head. Eventually, he shrugs, because sadly, this isn’t the strangest thing to happen to him in the past week, the past day, even. 

The door creaks open, and Stiles shuts his eyes tight. “Oh, God. Please tell me that isn’t my father.”

“No can do, Batman,” Erica says, grinning over her shoulder, her smile still sleep-muddled. “Hey, Sheriff.”

Stiles’ father blinks. Stares. Blinks again. Then, he shakes his head, muttering, “I don’t even want to know,” under his breath as he exits the room.

Stiles groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Oh my God, I hate you so much right now.”

“No you don’t,” Erica says, and Stiles sighs, sad to know that she’s right. He toys with kicking her out, sending her home, letting him get a few more hours of uninterrupted shut-eye before he has to start running errands. Instead, he does what any red-blooded male would do when waking up and unexpectedly finding a gorgeous woman in his bed.

He shuts up and goes back to sleep.

\--

A week after that, Stiles walks down the stairs still half asleep to find Isaac rummaging around in his cabinets, wearing a hoodie that looks awfully familiar. Erica is seated at the table, legs crossed, flipping through the newspaper his father must have been reading before he left for work.

Stiles blinks as Isaac lets out a triumphant little noise when he finds the box of Reese’s Puffs Stiles keeps hidden from his dad and the pack of bottomless pits he calls his friends.

“Dude,” Stiles asks, squinting his eyes, “Is that my hoodie?”

Isaac shrugs, taking a handful of cereal and shoveling it into his mouth. Stiles scowls, grabbing a bowl from one of the cabinets. He slams the door shut and thrusts the bowl at Isaac.

“Use a damn spoon,” he snaps, and Isaac rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Mom.” 

Stiles growls, stomping back up the stairs and gritting his teeth when Erica laughs. He is not _nearly_ awake enough for this shit.

\--

It isn’t until Jackson spends the night that things get truly weird.

Well. Weird _er,_ this whole situation always was kind of odd.

He wakes up in the morning with Lydia pressed against his chest, which would literally be a dream come true, if not for the fact that Jackson is asleep against her back.

“What. The fuck,” Stiles intones, and Lydia grumbles unhappily into his shirt.

“Zip it, Stilinski,” Jackson mutters, wrapping his arm around Lydia’s waist. His hand brushes against Stiles’ chest with the movement, and Stiles almost falls off of the bed in his haste to scoot backwards.

When he finds Allison and Isaac seated at his kitchen table and Boyd rifling through his fridge, he kind of wants to scream. 

“Stop eating all of my food!” Stiles snaps; he half considers jumping in front of Boyd and protecting the contents of his fridge with his life.

“You’re out of bacon,” Boyd says, deadpan as ever, and Stiles glares at his back.

“We don’t keep bacon in this house.”

“We’re out of eggs, too,” his dad says, patting him on the back on his way out the door. Allison snorts into her coffee, resting her feet in Isaac's lap.

Isaac shrugs, stealing a banana from the bowl of fruit on the table. Stiles lets out a frustrated little noise, slapping his face with his palm, because this is just the last straw.

That afternoon, he slams open the door at the loft, not making any attempt to mask his footsteps.

“Derek!” Stiles yells at the top of his lungs. “Get your ass down here!”

Derek walks down the stairs, raising an eyebrow and looking annoyingly laid back considering Stiles currently has werewolves _crawling all over his house._

Stiles huffs out an annoyed breath. “Control your damn puppies,” he snaps, and Derek’s eyebrows only rise higher. He folds his arms over his chest, muscles bulging under the sleeves of his shirt, and--

 _Whoa_. Bring that train to a full stop, Stiles tells himself. “Your pack has spent the better part of the past two weeks driving me up a wall. There has been inappropriate touching, and they’re eating all of my damn food, and they’re _sleeping in my bed._ Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know, and one of them eats more than me and Dad _put together._ ”

“I can give you money for groceries,” Derek says, so damn stoic that Stiles wants to slap him, just to get a reaction beyond sarcastic and mildly surly.

“You are missing the point entirely,” Stiles hisses, walking further into the room.

“So? What do you want me to do about it?”

“Make them stop! Clearly.” Stiles flails his arms when he almost trips over Derek’s boots. It’s that same moment he realizes that Derek isn’t wearing any shoes, bare feet poking out from under black jeans.

He wonders if he should find that sexy. Probably not.

Derek sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, shoulders tensing. “Your house smells like you,” he says after a moment of uncomfortable silence, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No shit, Sherlock. I _live_ there.”

“Human pack members are treasured, Stiles,” Derek says through gritted teeth, as if the explanation is being yanked out of him under extreme duress. “This is their way of showing you that they’ve accepted you into the pack. Of making sure you’re safe.”

Stiles lets that settle in his chest, warm and pleasant, because if _they_ accept him as pack, then so does Derek. That counts for something, at least. 

Still, he shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “So, why don’t they go bother Allison or Lydia?”

Derek’s eyebrows rise to his hairline, and Stiles glares, folding his arms over his chest even while his shoulders slump.

“Okay. Point.” He sighs, letting his arms fall back to his sides. “Just… tell them to be quiet about it. And to stop stealing my clothes, my bedroom is not a department store.”

Derek blinks, staring at Stiles in confusion, and Stiles tilts his head to the side because _that_ expression should be decidedly unattractive. Stiles’ eyes are drawn to Derek’s hands, twitching at his sides.

Nope. Still hot. Stiles is absolutely, certifiably hopeless.

“You smell like the pack." Then, after a pause, "They’re stealing your clothes?”

 _“Ack!”_ Stiles says, throwing up his hands and stomping out the door.

Stupid, attractive, _useless_ werewolf.

\--

Despite his appeal to Derek, things remain mostly the same. Stiles goes to sleep alone and wakes up with at least one other person in his bed, several other pack members downstairs, raiding his kitchen or demanding Stiles take them to the store for whatever food they deem necessary. He’s given up trying to stop them from stealing his clothes. More often that not, Erica is wearing one of his sweatshirts, hands stuffed in the pockets while she grins at him.

So, when Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night to the familiar feeling of a warm body at his back, he doesn’t think anything of it. He sighs, rolling over and getting ready to ask whoever it is for some breathing room, but his voice gets stuck in his throat, words failing him entirely when he sees Derek, staring at him in the dark.

Or, more importantly, at the shirt Stiles is currently wearing. The shirt that most definitely is _not his._

“That’s my shirt,” he says, frowning. 

Stiles swallows, his throat gone dry. “Yeah,” he croaks, then he clears his throat. “I - forgot. It was yours.” Even a total stranger who wasn’t a werewolf would know he was lying through his teeth.

Derek leans forwards, burying his nose in Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles stiffens, both unwilling and unable to move.

“Um. Derek? What are you doing?”

“You smell like me,” he growls - _growls,_ and Stiles has one fleeting moment to try to ignore the arousal that sweeps down his spine at the sound, and then Derek’s mouth crashes against his.

“Mmph,” Stiles says, his response mashed against Derek’s lips. He moves, shocked and uncoordinated for all of ten seconds before he gets with the program, wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist.

Derek slots their hips together, and Stiles has to bite back a sound that definitely could have been defined as a whimper.

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps, tugging back enough to get his hands all over Derek’s _holy God muscular_ back. “Had I known this is all it would take to get you in my bed, I would have worn this shirt to sleep _ages_ ago.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mutters; he presses Stiles down into the mattress, biting down at the cord of his neck. Stiles’ hips snap upwards, and he hisses out a breath. 

“But you like it when I talk,” Stiles says, grinning when Derek huffs against his skin. He pulls back, giving Stiles a slow, spine-melting smirk.

“Maybe,” Derek allows, and Stiles yanks him forwards by his hair, shutting both of them up.

\--

Stiles takes the stairs two at a time the next morning, rolling his eyes when Jackson flips him off as he says good morning. Derek follows more sedately at his back, but he’s wearing one of Stiles’ hoodies. It’s too small for him, tugging tight across his chest. He’s going to stretch it out. 

Stiles can’t be damned to mind.

He’s still wearing Derek’s shirt, just a little too big for his frame. Jackson arches an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Lydia, who smirks at them from behind her coffee.

Scott’s eyes slowly flit back and forth from Stiles to Derek and back again. He grins, redefining the term shit-eating.

“What?” Stiles snaps, and Derek snorts.

Scott only smiles wider, flashing his teeth, supremely proud of himself. “You smell like Derek.”

Stiles opens his mouth and blinks. Stares. Then, he punches Scott in the nose.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [dream_mancer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverchic1998/pseuds/riverchic1998) and [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted) for their always helpful betas. You are wonderful, ladies <3
> 
> Written for my January entry to the [Teen Wolf Full Moon Fic Challenge.](http://tw-fullmoonchallenge.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](http://seaboundandaimless.tumblr.com/)


End file.
